One Year Later: Infertility, IVF, and the Longest Wait
Infertility is isolating but common, affecting one in six couples, and yet so rarely spoken about in detail. A year ago, I shared our journey with a mix of vulnerability and hope. At that point, we were waiting for the results of our second IUI. That cycle did not work. A couple of weeks later, we went ahead with our third and final IUI, timed perfectly, just hours before we headed up north for a two week vacation.
Just days before that third IUI, I scheduled our first IVF consult, thinking, If this does not work, at least we will already be in the queue for the next step. The earliest appointment was 2.5 months away in October 2024, but I figured that was fine. IVF would surely move quickly once we started.
In my head, the plan was simple: one month of testing, one month for egg retrieval, add on a second month just in case we need a second egg retrieval. Then soon enough we could move straight into transfer. A generous five-month process from consult to pregnancy attempt. That’s reasonable, right?
I could not have been more wrong.
The Year of Waiting
Infertility is waiting, but IVF is waiting inside the waiting. It is the kind of waiting where you are never off the clock, where every cycle day matters, every lab result determines the next step, and every delay feels like an eternity you did not plan for.
For us, the year unfolded like this:
• Lab errors delayed our genetic carrier screening by nearly eight weeks.
• A fully booked clinic pushed our first retrieval back another two months. Then our second retrieval pushed three more months.
We were not just marking days. We were holding our breath for months at a time, unsure when or if we would be able to move forward.
False Hope, Real Grief
When our first retrieval finally came, my ovaries responded almost too well with over 50 follicles, intense abdominal swelling, and discomfort so severe my stomach was rock hard. I looked six months pregnant, and for a moment, the sheer volume of follicles gave us hope. Maybe I will only have to do this once!
The numbers seemed promising: 23 eggs retrieved, 17 fertilized. But by day five, only three embryos were high quality enough to freeze. We were blindsided by the attrition. We had read about it of course, but nothing prepared us for the reality of losing so many along the way.
We decided to do a second retrieval. Again, more waiting. The clinic was full, and the next available cycle was three months out. In July 2025, we repeated the process: another round of stimulation, another ballooned belly, 20 eggs retrieved, 16 fertilized, and only two high-quality embryos to freeze.
Now, we have five genetically normal embryos in total. It is a blessing we are grateful for, yet also a number that reminds us that even with “good” results, nothing about this is guaranteed.
The Emotional Toll
While the physical side of IVF is demanding, the mental toll can be staggering. The hormonal swings from birth control and ovarian stimulation medications can send you into cycles of anxiety, depression, irritability, and overwhelming fatigue. The uncertainty is unrelenting.
And while we were waiting, the world kept moving. We watched friends and acquaintances announce pregnancies, share ultrasound photos, throw baby showers, and welcome newborns, sometimes more than one child, in the time we have been trying to conceive our first. Each announcement was a mixture of genuine happiness for them and a quiet, private ache for us.
Navigating Friendships and Relationships
Infertility also changes the way you relate to people. There are days when all you want is to be alone, not because you do not love the people in your life, but because you feel like you have nothing left to give. You are mentally drained, physically uncomfortable, and emotionally fragile. Sometimes the idea of pretending to be okay in social situations is simply too much.
Partners carry their own unique weight through this process. They have their own sadness and heartbreak, but they also take on the role of caretaker. They feed you when you are too depressed to eat. They sit beside you when you cry in pain. They absorb your outbursts when your body crashes after a hormone surge. They have to remain steady when you cannot, even though they are hurting too. Their quiet endurance is often unseen by others, but it is the glue that holds you together in the moments when you feel like falling apart.
The Overwhelm of Being the Patient
Even as a healthcare provider, I have been surprised by how overwhelming it is to navigate the fertility world from the inside. There is the medical side with lab schedules, injections, and protocols, but also the constant decision-making.
Should we do another retrieval or move to transfer?
Do we test embryos genetically?
What happens if we get no normal embryos?
How do we plan life events around unpredictable timelines?
There is no map for this. The process changes mid-course based on your body’s response, your lab results, and the clinic’s availability. It is a full-time job to keep track of it all while still trying to live the rest of your life.
For me, the only way I can find meaning in this painful experience is to use it to help others. I can support people who are just starting to think about trying to conceive. I can be there for those in the thick of it, questioning why it is not working. I can walk alongside those navigating fertility treatments, offering both medical guidance and the understanding that comes from lived experience.
Looking Ahead With Hope & Fear
One year later, we are still in the waiting. We are preparing for our first embryo transfer, knowing full well of the statistics that it takes an average of three transfers for one live birth. We do not know how this next chapter will end. But we know that getting here has required a kind of strength we did not have when we started, and we are still standing, still showing up, still waiting.
At the end of day, infertility changes you. It strips away illusions and forces you to face parts of yourself you did not know existed. It teaches you about patience, resilience, and grief. It shows you the quiet ways love can persist through hardship. And while I would never have chosen this path, I hope that in sharing my story, I can make someone else feel less alone.
If you are in this process yourself, I see you. If you have been through it, you know this kind of waiting. And if you have not, but you are walking alongside someone who has, know that your patience, compassion, and willingness to sit in the unknown with them matters more than you think. Because in the end, infertility is not just about building a family. It is about surviving the in-between. And that might be the hardest part of all.
About the Author
Dr. Hannah is a naturopathic doctor providing whole body adjunctive healthcare to families in Southern Maine. She believes every patient has their own unique health journey, which influences her personalized treatment approach. She has a passion for helping women, mothers and families heal and thrive, all while uncovering the root cause of whatever ails them. Her goal is to empower and guide her patients on the path towards healing the mind, body and soul through natural methods of healing. Dr. Hannah sees patients locally in Brewer and Portland, Maine. Through telehealth, she is happy to serve the people of Lewiston, Ellsworth, Bangor, and all the towns in between!
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